Page 93 of Jingle Spells

“That was . . .” Delilah began, but found herself unable to finish the thought.

“Terrible?” he suggested.

“Perfect,” she corrected, and kissed him, not caring who was watching.

The kiss deepened, and suddenly the pub felt too crowded, too noisy. With no discussion, they both stood, offered some flimsy excuses to Scarlett and Nate, and headed for the door.

The winter air hit them like a shock as they stepped outside, stars glittering overhead in a clear December sky. Oak Haven at Christmas had always been beautiful, even with its kitschy magic and over-the-top decorations. Now, with tacky tourist traps lining the streets and the ominous silhouette of the casino looming in the distance, it was a study in contrasts: the beautiful and the grotesque side by side.

“Your room or mine?” Jasper asked, his breath visible in the cold.

Delilah smiled. “Mine has a better view.”

They walked quickly through the town center, hand in hand, stealing kisses in the shadows between streetlights. Once, they had to duck into an alley to avoid a tour group being led by a witch in an outrageously pointed hat. But even that couldn’t dampen the electricity between them.

By the time they reached the Stargazer—or, Hex Marks the Spot, according to a garish new sign outside—Delilah’s heart was racing with a mixture of desire and a fierce, protective ache. This man, with his precise mind and surprising courage, had somehow become essential to her in just a matter of days.

Her room was mercifully unaffected by the tourist takeover, a sanctuary of familiar comfort. When the door closed behind them, Jasper pulled her into his arms, his kiss deep and urgent. His glasses fogged slightly from the temperature difference, making her laugh softly against his mouth.

“Something funny?” he murmured.

“Just you,” she said, gently removing his glasses and setting them aside. “All of this. Us.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“The best thing.” Delilah’s fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, revealing pale skin beneath. “I never expected you, Jasper Hopkins.”

He caught her hands, his expression suddenly serious. “Delilah, before we go any further, I need you to know something. Whatever happens tomorrow . . . whether I remember you or not? This is real. You are real to me. The most real thing I’ve ever known.”

She felt tears threatening again and blinked them away. “Don’t. Don’t talk about tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he agreed, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth. “Just tonight, then.”

Their clothes fell away piece by piece, a gradual unveiling. Jasper’s hands were gentle but confident as they explored her body, finding places that made her gasp and arch against him. There was an urgency to their movements, a desperation born of limited time. Jasper moved with deliberate care, his eyes never leaving hers, as if memorizing every expression, every sigh. She watched him watching her, both of them fully present in this moment that would have to last forever, somehow.

Later, tangled in sheets and each other, they talked in the hushed tones of new lovers sharing secrets. Jasper told her about his childhood obsession with historical markers, how he’d make his parents stop at every bronze plaque they passed. Delilah confessed to a brief career as a teenage troublemaker, using minor spells to rearrange items in the general store. “Troublemaking was always my sister’s department. My attempts to keep up with Scarlett were always a little pathetic.”

“I would’ve liked to know you then.”

“You know me now,” she reminded him.

“I do.” He pulled her closer, his heartbeat strong and steady against her cheek. “And I’ll know you tomorrow, too. Even if I don’t remember.”

The words were a knife twist, but Delilah said nothing, letting the rhythm of his breathing lull her into sleep. Whatever tomorrow brought, they had this night. It would have to be enough.

Morning dawned clear and crisp, sunlight streaming through the window to paint golden stripes across the rumpled bed. Delilah woke to discover Jasper was already awake, watching her with that same intensity she’d seen last night.

“Creepy,” she murmured, but she was smiling.

“Beautiful,” he countered. He reached out to brush her hair back from her face.

Neither made a move to get up. Instead, Jasper pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her as if he could somehow stop time if he held on tight enough.

“We should probably . . .” Delilah began, but let her words trail off.

“Probably,” Jasper agreed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But not yet.”

As they lay there in silence, she tried to memorize the feel of him, the rhythm of his breathing, the way the light looked against his skin. She stored these details away like treasures: the small scar above his eyebrow from a childhood fall, the way his fingers traced patterns on her skin as if mapping territory he intended to revisit.